Read Online The Murder House by Simon Beaufort - Free Book Online Page B

Noble file – it was more complex than that. I’d grown to like Oakley, and I didn’t want him thinking badly of me. Nor did I want the issue of how James knew about Butterworth’s Blunder opened up again.
    I took a deep breath and tried to think rationally. I’d have to go, but I wasn’t going to march blindly into a situation I didn’t understand. For all I knew, Noble might be there, ready to exact revenge on the officer who’d arrested him – or to grin at the camera while James took snaps of us. I took my nightstick, and to protect myself against James’ smartphone, I donned a hideous dark red spotted scarf that a friend had once given me for Christmas. I looked like a Russian peasant, but it hid my distinctive hair. I also wore a cheap, dark blue pack-away mac. It came well below my knees, nicely hiding my other clothes.
    I walked briskly to Orchard Street, lest my courage failed and I’d arrive at work the following morning to find Oakley waiting with an envelope from Urvine and Brotherton and an expression of sad disbelief in his dark brown eyes. The area had once been respectable, then down at heel, and was now slowly becoming trendy again in the way of many inner cities – home now to teachers, nurses and managers. Much of it was comprised of Victorian terraces, but some, like Orchard Street, were post-war semis. I preferred the Victorian terraces, which had a certain antique charm with their carved lintels and bay windows. The semis were functional and without character, although still horrendously expensive to buy, given their proximity to the city centre.
    I kept my head down when I reached the bottom of the road, then strode up it with exaggeratedly long steps, so that James would have problems persuading people it was me if he was recording my arrival. It was dark – well past nine – and the lighting had never been much good in that particular street, which suited me just fine. I felt slightly ridiculous, like someone in a spy film, but I was angry enough not to care. I realized I should have known that James would be back for more once he’d seen how easy it was to bludgeon me, and I was mad at myself for not anticipating him.
    I found number nine, an uninspired semi with nasty black and white mock-gothic decoration. I wondered whether it was divided into flats, but there was only one doorbell, so I rang it, careful to keep my face in shadow. James answered almost at once, and I pushed past him into the hall while he closed the door, keen to be away from public view. He was wearing a suit and a white shirt, but he’d dispensed with his tie, probably because the house was stuffy and hot.
    The place stank of strong cleaning fluids, and would have benefited from the windows being opened to air it out. James’ hands were in his pockets and so, presumably, was his phone.
    â€˜Nice outfit,’ he remarked, eyeing the plastic mac and scarf.
    â€˜Well?’ I demanded. ‘What do you want?’
    He indicated I was to enter the first room on the right, the lounge. It was sparsely furnished, with a sofa, a coffee table, two armchairs and an empty bookcase. The carpet was functional beige, and I decided it was a rented house. The mantelpiece was its only interesting feature – or rather, what was on the mantelpiece was interesting. A geologist or rock collector must have lived there at some point, because it featured all kinds of attractive or unusual stones. There were several of those purple-blue spiky things that they sell at the seaside, a huge fossil in the shape of a whelk, and a big chunk of something pale and chalky, probably Portland limestone. A football-sized ammonite graced the grate below.
    â€˜It belongs to one of my clients,’ explained James. ‘He lets it to visiting scholars at the university. I use it occasionally for distasteful meetings.’
    So I was distasteful, was I? I watched him help himself to a drink